


Then Roll With Us

by bienenalster (pinkspider)



Series: Tracks [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Foe Yay, M/M, Pining, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkspider/pseuds/bienenalster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jack wrestles with social anxiety, desperate pining, drag parties, nonsensical drinking games, and the mother of all hangovers. Oh, and he also probes into the mystery of Kent's weird color changing eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then Roll With Us

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Pax](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pax) and [rayemars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rayemars) for being wonderful, patient beta readers and making my stuff way better (and also being all "no, no, this is how alcohol works, dear"). 
> 
> Also a thank you that will go unread by my non-fannish brother for translating Jack's drunken ramblings into Quebecois. He's a trooper, my brother, and the text I gave him to work with can be found in the end notes.

“Hah! Dude, that pass was sick,” the satisfaction is clear in Parse’s voice. When Jack turns around to look at him, he's wearing that free and easy grin again. Two weeks into the regular season and already the grin has become the finishing touch on every success, large or small. The grin is almost a smirk, and it drives Jack half crazy.

“Yeah, well, it helps that I know you’ll always make sure the puck finds you,” says Jack, just to make Parse do the grin again, which he does, adding a nonchalant shrug. Jack’s heart seizes up in pure longing. Parse's at least as good a player as Jack, if not better, and he works just as hard, but the difference is, he makes it seem easy, like all of this comes naturally to him and he doesn't have a care in the world. Jack would give anything to be like that.

"Hey, Parse! You almost done, man?” It’s Smithy and King standing by the bench in their street clothes.

"You always do this. C'mon, you workaholic, I'm hungry," gripes King.

"Yeah, yeah," Parse rolls his eyes. "Later, Legend," he says as he skates away. Jack follows after.

"Hey, Jack, do you want to go grab dinner with us?" asks Smithy. Jack glances toward Parse, who’s smiling with eyes that have gone gray and flat.

"Ah, thanks, but I was going to get some homework done." (Lies. He doesn't have any homework.) "Maybe next time?"

"Sure," replies Smithy. Does he sound the slightest bit relieved? Jack isn't certain. He's probably just being paranoid.

In the locker room, Jack takes his time removing his gear, trying his best not to look like he's listening in on the others' conversation as Parse unlaces his skates. It had taken a while for Jack to become part of the in-group back in mites, too, so he knows he can be patient and it’ll all turn out OK. But it still stings that Parse shuts down when they aren’t on the ice, which makes their being road roommates something of an issue. Even if he weren’t looking at a season or more of shared hotel rooms, he’d still need to fix this.

There’s no mistaking that Parse is on a journey to the center of the team’s universe; he’s the first guy the other rookies seek out in their downtime, and the older guys seem unable to resist his gravitational pull as well. When Parse leaves, Smithy and King trailing ever so slightly behind him, Jack lets out a sigh and waits a few minutes to leave so he won’t run back into them on the way out.

***

It doesn’t make sense, though, Jack reflects on his way to the library. He and Parse have amazing chemistry on-ice, and they do put in their extra rink time together after almost every practice. Parse seems to enjoy the extra skate as much as Jack does, or else why would he do it so consistently? But they don’t really talk too much otherwise, and Jack gets the distinct impression that that’s how Parse wants it. He doesn’t snub Jack, nothing that big. Just sometimes, if Jack strikes up a conversation off the ice, Parse’s voice goes just a little flat. If they’re with any of the other guys, Parse angles himself towards them instead of Jack. Granted, they haven’t really known each other all that long, so maybe Jack’s just being, well, himself again, but he’d still kind of hoped that they’d be actual friends by the time the regular season started up.

It’s probably the Bad Bob Effect taking hold again. Sometimes, when he was little, other kids or even their parents got standoffish about Jack’s father: Jack thinks he’s better than us; Jack is getting more ice time than my kid because he’s Bad Bob’s son. Or else, they’d be distant because they were dazzled by the Zimmermann name, which was powerful enough to occasionally draw reporters to come talk to Jack long before he even got into the double digits. He’d get checked a little too hard or tripped when none of the adults were looking, and off the ice he’d be snubbed or teased. Whatever it was, all Jack had to do was just be patient, kind, and polite. Then, too, everyone would get to meet his dad and see him more and more frequently, and then they’d all find out that Bad Bob was, in most ways, like a regular person except more polite and self-possessed.

Of course, his father’s back in Montreal, so that acclimation to him isn't really an option. It’s all up to Jack. And his ability to be social.

Shit.

After getting the book he'd reserved at the library, Jack heads straight back to the house where he runs into Camille, his billet sister. Camille's a grade ahead of Jack, tall and pretty. The gentle waves of her auburn hair make Jack wonder whether her parents ever have second thoughts about bringing a teenage boy into the house.

"Hey, Jack. I'm gonna make some KD. Want any?" He shakes his head.

Camille shrugs in reply. "Suit yourself. How was practice?"

"Good," he says while shucking off his shoes. Camille pauses, leaning against the walls and crossing her arms over her chest.

"So, I hope I'm not being a jerk or anything, but don’t you ever hang out with anyone? I feel like you're normally alone when I see you at school,” she explains with an apologetic wave of her hand. “I don't think I've ever seen you hanging out with guys from the team either."

Jack stares fixedly at his book while mumbling out his answer. "I dunno. I get along great with them, I just..."

"Well, what about that Parson kid? Didn't you mention something about him skating with you after practice? And based on the games I've gone to, it seems like you guys can read each other's minds already. Why not invite him over to play X-Box or whatever? Mom and Dad would be totally cool with it, if that's what you're worried about." Camille’s smile is gentle, and Jack’s just glad his flinch at that stays internal.

"Yeah, maybe," he says with a shrug he hopes is half as nonchalant and cool as the kind Parse does whenever he agrees to go hang out with the guys.

Camille narrows her eyes. "Well... Let me know if you change your mind about that snack." She disappears toward the kitchen and Jack heads upstairs to his room.

He flops down on the bed with his library book and tries to read about dazzle camouflage, but he can't stop thinking about how either Camille is a mind reader or else the universe is just dead set on making Jack actually ponder his social life. Maybe he should invite Parse over someday. If only Parse didn't hate him. Just thinking about it makes Jack's stomach twist a little. When he's being honest with himself -- and tonight he clearly is -- Parse is the only guy on the team whose regard he's really worried about, and less for his growing social influence and more for his beautiful eyes and the thought of his dexterous hands. Specifically, the thought of his hands on Jack. Which.

In a way, maybe it's actually better if Parse wants nothing to do with him off the ice. Jack's going to picture him while jerking off in the shower no matter what, but the finality of Parse's dislike might make it easier to be around him, knowing he doesn't even have a sliver of hope.

God, he's got it bad. Jack smashes his pillow into his face to muffle his melodramatic sigh. Never fall for a straight boy.

***

Jack had known that the traditional hazing party was just a matter of time. But his stomach still drops straight through the floor when Beckett raps on one of the lockers after practice and yells, "Drag party at Brown’s on Saturday night, boys. Better use the next couple days to find something pretty." A couple guys actually woop, but more of them opt for a faux-long-suffering groan.

"You're gonna come with us to find some slutty Halloween costumes, right?" asks Smithy.

Before Jack can stutter out an answer, Parse's sardonic tones ring out from across the way. "Gonna chicken out on us, Legend?"

Jack rolls his eyes and scoffs, "Hardly."

"Atta boy," says Smithy, clapping him on the shoulder.

Jack grins. His insides feel like a balled up fist. Parse and King are tapping away on their cell phones already, looking for the best place to buy something ridiculous. It probably won't be that bad, actually. They'll all be dressed like idiots, after all. And this is just what everyone does, a tradition. And he'll also have a good opportunity to hang out with the guys, be just like everyone else. It'll be fun. Parse is grinning easily as King scribbles down an address. Jack tugs at the cuff of his jacket and relaxes against the wall.

And that’s how, the next afternoon, Jack finds himself rifling through racks of skimpy women’s costumes almost as though he doesn't have a care in the world. He’s certain there's something that will strike just the right balance between showing he's game and not completely sacrificing his dignity once the photos inevitably make it onto the Internet.

"For real,though?" he hears King asking.

"Fuck yeah," rejoins Parse. "I'm building a look here. Glitter is essential, duh."

"You're a little too into this, man."

"Says the guy holding a sexy ladybug costume."

"It's a classic, you dick. Hey, Zimmermann, how are you making out here ?" King and Parse round the corner. They both immediately start flipping through the same rack as Jack.

"Nothing yet," Jack replies in what he hopes is a sufficiently breezy tone.

"What about this, Legend?" Parse has found a slutty Alice in Wonderland getup, complete with a puffy little underskirt and an apron. "It matches your eyes. You'll be sooooo pretty. "

"You've been paying that much attention to my eyes?" Jack asks, hoping against hope he isn't blushing like mad.

King snickers at Parse who just rolls his eyes and holds the dress out to Jack. "Are we done here?" He asks King, sounding bored beyond belief.

"Will be once I find Smithy," says King, and he heads off down another aisle.

Jack inspects the costume. It’ll do. He speed walks to the register, keenly aware of Parse sauntering along behind him. With any luck, the backs of his ears aren't red. Breezy, thinks Jack. Just be cool.

The rest of the week, the costume sits crumpled in a bag in the corner of Jack's closet, waiting. Lurking.

***

"No, I swore on my life I wouldn't tell anyone that story. He'd kill me." Jack smiles innocently in response to Brown's disappointed groan and takes another swig of his Molson. The evening’s turning out well enough that Jack wonders what he’d been so worried about. Just on the right side of being buzzed, he thinks he’s managing to not bore Brown and LeBlanc. Having all the exclusive Bad Bob stories is a beautiful thing. It pretty much guarantees you'll be in good at a party full of hockey players.

The really beautiful thing, though, is that he does have this. It's just the team there, most of them looking almost as ridiculous as stupid sexy ladybug Smithy, which makes Jack feel a lot less self conscious in his dumb Alice dress. And then there’s Parse. It figures that he would somehow manage to look considerably less idiotic than everyone else. He’s toeing the line of “drag party” in his loose fitting t-shirt with an American flag on it worn over cut off jeans, ripped up tights, and combat boots. Then again, there’s the glitter on his eyes. It's stupid, yes, but the whole look is kinda working for him. Jack's pretty sure he's doing a respectable job of not looking.

Moving on.

“Guys!” It’s Smithy over on the other side of the room with Parse and a couple others. “We need three more for flip cup. You in?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” replies Brown. “C’mon, Zimmer.” Jack has never actually played flip cup before, but he’s familiar with the rules, thank God. He ends up matched with Parse for the first round.They pour the regulation amount of Natty Lite into their cups. Across the table, Parse raises his cup and smirks at Jack. It’s barely any beer at all, and Jack’s pretty sure that if he can stick handle like he does, he can sure flip a cup, too. No problem. He matches Parse’s smirk and toasts him.

Jack is surprised to discover that he’s not so great at flip cup. In fact, he’s kind of awful. In the first round, Parse utterly crushes him. Then Smithy does. And King. To say it goes downhill from there would imply that there was ever a high point to descend from, and that would just be a huge lie.

Two games, and he was never voted out, and now he’s fuzzy enough that he’s agreed to play King’s Cup, too, even though he has no idea how that one’s played. Probably he loses, is how it’s played. Smithy starts explaining while Parse goes to get some more of the mystery punch Jack hasn’t tried yet, but it takes basically no time for the explanation to turn into “Look, we’ll just say what to do as it happens, ok?”

Parse returns with a solo cup in each hand, gripping a third between his teeth. His hand grazes Jack's shoulder as he sets one of the cups down in front of him. Jack shivers. A little bit of murky yellow liquid splashes over the side. It smells a lot like rubbing alcohol and a little like pineapple.

“Alright,” says Parse with a theatrical crack of his neck. “Let’s get this started.” He reaches to the middle of the table and grabs one of the cards fanned out around the plastic pitcher that’s serving as the king’s cup. “Four. Well. There are no chicks. So, how about everyone wearing a skirt drinks?”

King protests “That’s everyone except for you, dick.”

“Tough. I mean, it’s just logic,” Parse retorts. Jack’s already throwing back a mouthful of his drink. It’s even boozier than he thought it would be, with less pineapple flavor than its bright yellow color suggests. Smithy rolls his eyes and takes a swig of his drink, and King follows suit.

“Okay, now you, Zimmer.” Jack draws a card: it’s the three of spades.

“That’s three sips for you,” says Smithy. Jack groans, but does it.

Ten minutes later, Jack’s head is swimming. This game makes absolutely no sense. He just drinks when he’s told. Even Smithy and King are starting to sway a little. Parse seems okay, but then, he’s got the devil’s luck. He draws a two, AGAIN, and points at Jack.

“This one’s all on you, Zimmer,” he says. “Two sips, go.” Jack empties his cup. Parse goes and gets more for him. On his next turn, Parse draws yet another card to make someone else drink. Jack isn’t sure how long they’ve played when he picks up a card and it’s the king of hearts.

“Tough luck, man,” says Smithy. “That’s the last king. Means you’ve gotta drink the king’s cup.”

Jack eyes the pitcher dubiously. It’s about a third full of some of the most vile looking stuff Jack’s seen in his life. The yellow punch he and Parse had been drinking the whole time is now a cloudy brown after Smithy and King switched over to dark beers. He’s got a bad feeling about this, but the guys are staring at him expectantly.

“Dude, don’t puss out,” says King, his consonants soft. "Chug!” Parse and Smithy start chanting with him, so Jack grabs the pitcher, throws back his head, and chugs.

It’s fucking disgusting.

He gasps for breath once he’s downed it all, and his head is reeling, and King is punching him on the shoulder and saying “Way to go, man.”

Jack glances up to where Parse is sitting across the table from him. Parse is watching him with his head cocked to one side. His eyebrows are arched and the corner of his mouth is twitched up slightly. His full attention is on Jack. He looks… impressed? Surprised? Whatever it is, it makes Jack shiver under the scrutiny.

“Yeah, way to go, Legend,” Parse drawls. He's fiddling with the rim of his solo cup and barely sounds drunk at all. How the hell can he hold his liquor this well?

Jack burps, and it tastes like pineapple, only rotten. “Blech,” he comments, clapping his hand over his mouth. “Mon dieu! Putain, c'est dégueulasse.”

Parse snickers. Jack leans forward and props his elbows on the table, trying to hold his brain together. It’s way too hot, and he can feel that god-awful combination of booze just sloshing around in his stomach. It’ll be okay; he just has to power through this and tough it out, that’s all. “Kay,” he says. “Wuz next?”

“For you? Water, probably,” says King while gesturing to Smithy, who disappears and comes back a minute later with a cup of water.

“Just chill for a few,” he says, pressing the cup into Jack’s hand.

“D’accord,” Jack hears himself say, and he tries to wave King away. The room is swimming. So’s his brain. He shakes his head to try and clear it, and that’s a terrible idea, so next he just tries to sit as still as possible since maybe that’ll stop his insides sloshing. If he just gets left alone for a little bit, he’ll be fine. He gets several minutes of blessed silence as he hunches at the table with his face pressed into his arms.

This does not fix anything.

“You do _not_ look good, man.” King’s back.

“Mmrf,” Jack replies.

"Someone should probably help him home, eh?" That’s Jones.

"You live closest to him, don't you, Parse?" And Brown.

"Yeah. Guess I drew the short straw, huh?"

“Guess so, but not until we’ve made him drink some more water." Brown’s got his most Responsible Captain Voice going on.

"Alright, Legend," A moment later Kent comes back with another cup of water. “Here. Drink.” Jones appears with a trashcan, which he wordlessly hands to Jack.

“Just. Stay here a bit,” Kent commands. That’s a pretty easy order to follow. The world is too shaky to walk on right now. Jack stays. He drinks his water.

Kent materializes back at his side. “Yo, Legend. You good?” Jack shrugs. “Uh huh. You gonna vom?” Jack shakes his head. “Cool. Ready to walk?” Jack nods blearily.

“Great. Let's make tracks. Thanks, Brown, good party." He steers them towards the door. "See you on Monday, boys."

“Gonna get a taxi?” asks Brown. Kent shakes his head.

"No, it’s walkable. That'll give him some time to get sober - kinda - before we get home," explains Kent.

Brown’s eyebrows furrow. “Well, alright…. Be careful.”

"M'rci," Jack manages on his way out the front door. He trips a little over his own feet almost as soon as they’re on the sidewalk.

"Christ, you're a mess," Kent gripes as he stoops a little and pulls Jack's arm across his shoulders. Jack can feel the worry about what the others will think of his pathetic inability to hold his alcohol sinking a hook into his mind, but it’s dulled by the haze in his brain. It’s a distant thought, and right now, his entire existence is telescoping down to putting one foot in front of the other and not barfing on Kent. His stomach feels a little more settled, but this is clearly not his lucky night, and that would just be the cherry on top of it all.

They walk along in silence for a couple miles, Jack slumping against Kent and concentrating very hard on each step. They’re about a quarter mile away from the park between their houses when Kent pauses beneath a streetlamp to adjust Jack’s grip around his shoulders. The light sparkles off his glittery eyeshadow, and his eyes are deep, deep green - like seaweed, thinks Jack. Which is funny, since not two hours ago, he could’ve sworn they were cloudy blue. He needs to get to the bottom of this.

“Tes yeux mon gars, y sont quelle couleur? Y sont bleues? Verts? Gris? Laquelle? Y sont stupides, change-y.”

“What? I can't understand you. Talk English.” Kent’s words have a gentle slur to them, but he sounds sleepy more than trashed, like he’s slowly easing back into consciousness on an overcast Sunday morning.

“Désolé mon gars, c'était inadmissible. Y sont beaux tes yeux à toé. BEAAAAAAUUUUUUX. Comme une bague d'humeur. C'est bon qu'y changent. C'est bonne la nouveauté.”

“Yeah, buddy, really can't understand word one," Kent mutters. He sounds salty. "You better be super grateful tomorrow. Lucky I didn't just leave you there. "

“Merci, toé t'es le meilleur mon gars, vraiment le meilleur. Je veux toujours jouer en trio avec toé. Quitte moé pas, ok?” Jack presses his arm more firmly around Kent’s shoulders and squeezes his bicep to drive home his point. “Le meilleur!”

"Ok, yes, you're the best. Got it. Geez, simmer down, you're embarrassing yourself."

"Heh. Zimmer down," Jack giggles.

"... I know you did not." Kent's disdain is withering, but is there the hint of a smile under it? “Well, at least it’s English, I guess.”

Kent shakes his head, and it feels like his body shakes with a quiet laugh. Jack leans a little more heavily against his side, allowing himself to savor the moment, even as his weight makes Kent stumble a little under him.

"Look," says Kent. "We're at the park. Let's just sit down a bit. You're fucking heavy."

Kent guides Jack to a bench and flops on to it, dragging Jack down with him. Clumsy, and off balance, and tipsy, they don’t really sit so much as fall, remaining pressed up against each other the whole time. Jack leans into Kent's side and rests his forehead against the corner of Kent's jaw ("fucking really?" he can hear Kent grumble). The skin there is soft, so he stays like that even though Kent smells of alcohol. Underneath it there's a faint whiff of shaving cream, which is mildly hilarious given how Kent can't even manage to grow a decent five o'clock shadow. Jack's going to find glitter in his hair tomorrow and maybe all week. Kent shifts, moving Jack’s face away from his neck and laying his arm along the bench back behind Jack.

Jack quickly loses track of how long they sit there like that. The night is cool and still, lit by the streetlights along the jogging path and more faintly by stars. The crisp air is a gentle wakeup call, and the world is stabilizing. Beside him, Kent relaxes minutely, and Jack feels like his own body is melting. Kent's rib cage moves slightly with his breath, and he's warm and solid and stable, and there’s nowhere else in the world Jack would rather be. If time could stop right now, it would be alright. He thinks about saying it out loud.

Instead, he says, “This skirt is itchy.”

Kent snorts. "Do me a favor and sober up quick, Legend. You’re kinda weirding me out here, man."

"Tryin'." Jack pauses, gathers his English, and stares straight ahead.

He clenches his fists tight and asks, "Why d’you call me that? Legend."

Kent turns toward Jack, and his grin has a bitter twist to it. "’Cause everyone else is thinking it. Who haven't you been compared to? Seriously. Richard. Gretzky. Your dad. If I hear one more person talk about how you're taking up the space Crosby left behind here..." He looks away, shaking his head and pursing his lips.

"Sorry."

Kent's arm withdraws from the back of the bench sharply and his words come out clipped. "For what?"

"For all that. I. You're just as good as me. Better. And it's not fair that people... I didn't ask for this." Jack plants his hands on his knees for stability. He clenches his jaw and concentrates very hard on keeping his whole body and the world around it as still and grounded as he can.

"See, that's the real bitch of the thing. You can't even enjoy it, you're such a freaking boy scout." Kent leans forward on his knees, level with Jack, and looks right back at him with a sneer. "'Oh no, I'm nothing special, the puck just found me and tapped itself in by accident. Three times. Gosh, mister, I'm just lucky to be here, trying to give 110% and play a 200 foot game.' It's like, you are what you are, so just nut up and enjoy it."

Kent leans back again, crosses his arms. "Shit’s wasted on you."

They fall into a tense silence while Jack’s head reels and the bottom drops out of his stomach. It’s one thing to suspect Parse hates him. It’s another to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. He feels frozen as the first hints of sobriety and crushing disappointment trickle through his veins.

The quiet drags on for decades and the few inches between them feel like miles. Jack isn’t leaning against Parse any more, but he can still feel how Parse’s gone just as ramrod stiff as Jack himself. Part of Jack wishes he could be swallowed up by a hole in the ground, or just go live alone in a cave and never have to worry about disappointing anyone ever again. But that would be giving up, and that’s one thing Jack never ever does. He spends a couple more minutes marshaling his thoughts.

“Having my dad is - it can be good, yeah. I know I get perks. I know. I get advice from him and his friends, and most people don’t get that kind of help in their backyard rink. When I played in mites, the first game we won, I got a goal, but not the game winner. There was a local reporter there. Isn’t that kind of fucked up?”

Parse doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring straight ahead, so Jack fixes his own eyes on a distant point in front of him and continues. “He talked to my dad and asked, aren’t you proud? My dad said of course, maybe Jack will even get the game winner next time, wouldn’t that be great. And the reporter called me a chip off the old block. It was on the six o’clock news. I was just five and it was only a mites game.”

He can see Parse looking back at him out of the corner of his eye. His eyebrows are raised in consideration, so Jack keeps barreling on, the words spilling out rapidly like a dam broke in him.

“It was always like, what’s he going to do next? How are you going to get better? If I ever made one little mistake during a game, Dad would pull out a whiteboard when we got home and diagram the play I screwed up, and then we’d drill on it the next day. And he and my mom were always correcting my English, too, to make sure I explained everything well when reporters talked to me.”

“Yeah, so what?” Parse mutters, pushing his bangs out of his face.

“There were good things, but… it just never lets up. That’s all. Like, there’s so much pressure, man. And if I mess up, people are always watching and talking. And when I do well, it’s ‘spitting image of his father’ this, ‘chip off the old block’ that. I don’t have any room…” He trails off, not sure where he’s going with this. “But you, you just get to… be you, I guess.”

“Oh God, no, people expect you to be awesome. Must be terrible,” Parse says, but he’s relaxed a bit and there’s no heat in his voice anymore.

“People might not be watching you yet, Parse, but they will be.”

That gets Parse’s attention, and Jack himself is a little surprised by how damn much conviction is in his voice when he says it. Parse turns his head toward Jack, apparently waiting for Jack to say more. His eyes are focused on Jack’s with a softness that Jack’s never seen in them before. They’re wide, and expectant, and so green.

“So, sorry, I guess,” says Jack as he forces himself to break the eye contact.

“Jesus, could you sound more Canadian,” is all Parse says, but he leans back against the bench.

After a few more minutes, Parse shifts and Jack feels the warmth of his arm along the back of the bench. He's sitting close to Jack once more, and all at once, the tension flows out of him. His leg bumps up to rest against Jack's. Jack feels himself relax, too, and the night envelops them again.

***

Jack wakes up to pounding on his door followed immediately by pounding in his head. Suddenly light hits him like a blow. He peels his face off of his pillow and blearily looks up to see his billet mother leaning against the wall by the light switch.

“Mrs. Renard…?” he mumbles through his mouthful of sticky cotton.

“Good morning, Jack! Ready for the yard work?”

“Huh?” he says.

“Oh, don’t you remember? Yesterday, you promised to help with raking, spreading fertilizer, and mowing.”

“Uh… I did?”

“Oh, yes. Up and at ‘em!” She shakes a bottle of Aspirin at him. “Tools are in the shed out back.” She sets the bottle on the dresser with a syrupy sweet smirk. “See you down there in 10 minutes.”

Jack blinks slowly at her receding back. Something died in his mouth. His eyes are coated in gum. And he’s going to go rake up leaves as the sun finishes dragging itself into the sky, apparently. He rolls out of bed – literally – and claws his way to the dresser for clothes and Aspirin.

He’s absolutely wretched, but he did bring it on himself.

Parse just helped, a little.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s in the backyard, dutifully and robotically raking leaves into neat piles while vehemently regretting every single thing that happened last night -- whatever it all was -- and hoping that he didn’t forget anything too awful. Definitely he remembers spending a lot of time plastered against Parse. He’s pretty sure he, oooh, fuck – that he _nuzzled_ Parse’s neck. He could die. Something cold touches the back of his neck, and he turns around to find Camille offering him a water bottle.

“Dad said we’ll be having a late breakfast in about 20 minutes if you want to take a break,” she says with a too-perky smile. “Heads up, I think Mom’s planning on banging the pots and pans as much as she can. You’re lucky you’re not actually one of her kids, though. She’s being waaaaaay nicer than she was the first time I snuck in after a house party.”

Jack accepts the water with a grateful smile. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Whatever you did last night, I hope it was worth it. Was it?”

Jack stares at his leaf pile. “I don't know.”

Camille hums. “Well. You got out, finally. So it probably was.” She claps him on the shoulder and he winces. She turns on her heel, and as she walks away, she smirks, looking more like her mother’s daughter than Jack’s seen yet. “It’s gonna be a long day, man.”

She’s not lying. Choking down breakfast and mowing the lawn seem to take forever, but the clock alleges it’s only about 11 when he cuts open the first bag of mulch. He can’t stop running scenarios in his head as he spreads around mulch on Mr. Renard’s prized hedges.

Maybe Parse will tell everyone just what a mess he was. Maybe he won’t, but he’ll remember, he’ll know, and he’ll look down on Jack. Maybe he realized and now he knows that Jack enjoyed being pressed up against him, and maybe he’s fine with that, but probably he’s just going to give Jack a really wide berth. Maybe Parse was drunker than he seemed and doesn't remember much. If Jack’s lucky, at least no one else will hear about it.

He won’t have any idea until the next time he sees the team, and speculating isn’t helping his headache at all.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

It’s a text from Parse. A flush of heat races up the back of his neck and he gulps hard before looking at it.

“legendary nite yesterday ha ha”. Jack dies a little and texts back “ugh sorry about that. Thx though.”

He kneels on the lawn like a statue, waiting for a reply and listening to the pounding of his heart.

After an eternity, he gets back, “nbd got ur press statement ready for monday? lol ;p”.

What the hell does that mean?

He texts back, “You bet” and does his best to lose himself in the mulch.

***

When Jack enters the locker room on Monday, he finds himself with Parse’s arm slung across his shoulder before he knows what’s going on.

“Zimmer. Good to see you’re still among the living after Saturday,” he says, smirking. “I’m impressed. Didn’t know you had it in you, man.”

Jack is saved from having to respond by Brown commanding them all to get a move on. Before he’s even finished putting on all his pads, he’s already gotten fist bumps and shoulder taps from King, Smithy, and LeBlanc. He didn’t really expect this, but he’ll take it.

At the end of practice, he overhears King asking, “Parser, you coming?”

“Nah, go on without me. I wanna work a little more on drop passes. Hey, Zimmer! You staying?” His grin is almost blinding.

“Sure,” says Jack.

“Yesterday was rough as hell. Bet it was worse for you, huh?” Parse comments as Jack glides by the pick up the puck.

“I ended up mowing the lawn first thing in the morning,” he laments as he settles the puck.

“Yikes. And you were pretty fucking trashed, bro,” Parse smirks at Jack as he takes the puck. “I mean, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

Jack stops and whips around so fast his legs almost fall out from under him. The puck careens off to the boards.

“What.” Says Jack.

Parse’s eyes widen and he holds up his free hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Whoah, zimmer down. I’m joking.”

“Well, it’s not funny,” Jack mumbles.

“Sorry, Zimms,” he actually sounds chastened. “Didn’t mean anything by it. We good?”

“We’re good.”

“Call it quits?” asks Parse. Jack nods.

“Cool, I’ll see if any of the guys still wanna hang out tonight,” Parse coasts to a stop next to Jack and casually thwacks his stick against Jack’s shinguards. “You in?”

“Yeah,”replies Jack, with a grin of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation Corner!  
> Biene: Would you say if you're a beginner at learning standard French, it'd be pretty tough to understand a native Quebecois speaker saying even simple shit?  
> Older Brother: YES.  
> Biene: So, if I send you some text, can you translate it into drunk Quebecois?  
> Older Brother: Is this for fanfiction? About hockey?  
> Biene: Yeah.  
> Older Brother: Alright. Send it over, but just remember that my knowledge of Québec French is rather limited.  
> Here’s the snippet with Jack translated into English.
> 
>  
> 
> “Your eyes, dude, like, what color are they even? Are they blue? Green? Gray? What? They’re stupid, just fix them.”  
> “What? I can't understand you. Talk English.”  
> “Sorry, man, that was out of line. Your eyes are fine. They’re BEAUTIFUL. Like a mood ring. It’s good that they change. Change is nice.”  
> “Yeah, buddy, really can't understand word one. You better be super grateful tomorrow. Lucky I didn't just leave you there. "  
> “Thanks, man, you’re the best, really, the best. I wanna play on a line with you forever, so don’t leave me, ok? The best!”  
> "Ok, yes, you're the best. Got it. Geez, simmer down, you're embarrassing yourself."  
> "Heh. Zimmer down."
> 
>  
> 
> For anyone who’s curious, here are the things that make it Quebecois-ish instead of the rarefied Parisian French my brother actually speaks.  
> “Gars” instead of “mec” for “dude” or “man”  
> “Y” replaces pronouns “il” and “ils”  
> “Toé” instead of “toi”


End file.
